


Loyalty

by jinxiphos



Category: League of Legends
Genre: Assassins & Hitmen, Blood and Violence, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Knives, Noxus, Using the Environment to Try and Kill Someone, Violence, violence against a child
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-22
Updated: 2020-09-22
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:55:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26601772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jinxiphos/pseuds/jinxiphos
Summary: Talon never went down willingly.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 18





	Loyalty

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SilverQueensGoldfinch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilverQueensGoldfinch/gifts).



> I wrote this work a while ago, when I did most of the editing for SilverQueensGoldfinch, but I dropped off the face of the earth for a while to take care of some family things and then this pandemic hit. 
> 
> Either way. This work was written initially by me, but Goldfinch added a bunch, then it was edited by me, then edited by her, and now edited by me again. We finally "finished" it.

The dripping of water taunted the young boy as he wiped his steadily running nose, purposefully avoiding the deep gash parting his cheek. His adolescent form, alone in the tunnel, heaved the third and last body along to release it into the viscous muck that might once have been water, long ago. The colorless mass incorporated its newest prey with a dark gurgle, swallowing arms and legs first before sinking the head until only a stripe of cloth-covered back was left to be seen. The rats would have a decent meal tonight, killing each other over scabs of meat. Only the strongest would get to eat the eyes, as he knew by observation. It had not been a voluntarily made one.

Task completed, the boy allowed himself to stand and use the closest walls as a crutch. He avoided touching the new wound on his face, even though trying to keep the deep gash clean was a hopeless endeavor. The child clutched to the slimy walls as tightly as he could, sparing no hesitance as his already torn and ragged clothes became debased even dirtier against the refuse and grime. The odor of waste mundane to his nose, but the familiar metallic scent of blood stung him soothingly. He breathed in deeply, purposefully relaxing himself. He was not injured too gravely, it was nothing that would incapacitate him in this second. Only the scar would inevitably become a problem later on. Taking in one more deep breath, he disconnected from the pain in his cheek as well as in his abused muscles before something strange set him on the edge again. Among the blood and decay was another unusual smell. The identification came quickly to the boy; fresh leather and something _clean._ Neither belonged here, in this putrid tunnel. He tensed as he considered the source a potential threat.

After this last bout with the would-be assassins who were now swimming face down in the waste, his muscles ached. He rolled his right arm around in its socket, stretching his neck to the left in the process. His posture wavered as he walked, attempting to remain silent as he _listened_ for the obscurity that had already met his nose. Only the ever-present dripping of water and his own subtle steps reached his ears in the darkness. Releasing his held breath, the boy continued to slink down the sewer path, where a tunnel would lead to the surface. 

He needed to get away until he had gained an overview and until he had discovered the source of this unfamiliar smell before he was the one to be lured out of the shadows he used for cover.

The boy paused. The hair on the back of his neck stood high and every feeling in his stomach told him that _someone was behind him._ An unobtrusive glance over his shoulder renounced that thought as nothing more than paranoia. The usual stillness of the hollow provided little comfort, though. Something was missing from the scene, despite the feast he had just served. The rats. There was no quiet pitter-patter of tiny claws tapping against the stone floor, nor the spontaneous squeaks and chirps that they occasionally made. The vermin were hiding, and not from something as familiar as him. There was only one possible explanation for the combined irregularities: an unfamiliar predator was in the area and all notions hinted that it, whatever it was, was hunting _him_.

His footsteps were soft and without sound. His pace was slower than he would have preferred, but knowing he was being stalked, he would much rather sacrifice speed for stealth. 

Gradually edging through the tunnels, the boy knowingly navigated his way by each crossway, attempting to utilize his hopefully more detailed knowledge about the architecture to his advantage. After several minutes of nimble weaving and eluding his hunter, he stopped moving and pressed his back against a wall, holding his breath to listen, despite the burning cry of his lungs for _air._

There was nothing. No sound nor indication of movement pervaded his senses. The fresh scent, which indicated more problems to come, had become swallowed by the rancid stench thriving in the sewers. His breath escaped in a huff, a necessity as much as it was a lure, relaxing the tenseness of his shoulders and neck as his hands twisted and turned a knife in his hand, preparing to lash out at anyone following this sound. He counted to twenty-five times, his fingers twitching each time he had finished one set. As he leaned away from the wall and took a step forward, he tried to regain his composure and develop a plan for permanently ending this pursuit. 

He scanned the area and chose a path along another slow underground runlet, where the occasional gas bubble popping from the rotting fluid would overlay his already subtle footsteps even more. 

He managed twelve steps before the alarm in his head went off. Diving to the side and throwing a blade at where he had just come from, he trusted his intuition more than the knowledge that there _had been no one_ as he had walked by. His intuition was right, there was someone—a lonely person, dark even in the everlasting blackness of the moat. The boy did not waste time to exploit why someone was there _despite his attention_ and threw a fan of blades against the intruder, a mere distraction. The stranger turned to the side to avoid the blades effortlessly, a moment the boy used to _leap,_ thrusting the blade in his right hand forward. The other person was not even looking his way. _This is too easy_ , the boy realized mid-attack. A second later, green eyes flickered to him, a small grin formed on beard-framed lips as the stranger sidestepped the boy, piercing a slender blade into his side _. Not a lethal jab_ , he instantly recognized and spun around, his threadbare cloak flaring up as he swiped his dagger across the strange man’s chest. Contrary to what should have happened, the man leaned back just enough to avoid being scratched. The boy instantly backed off, leaping into the shadows for shelter, retreating under the cover of another volley of his blades. Those had been the ones scavenged from the would-be assassins today, and his supply of them was dwindling fast, so getting away fast became a priority.

After slipping through a few sewer holes only someone of his size was able to pass, he halted, his breath heaving, and pulled out the blade still sticking in between his ribs. He would be able to wield it as another weapon, even if the wound was now unplugged. The burning in his lungs told him that one had just collapsed, so his other hand went to apply pressure to the gash.

“Good prediction,” a male voice assessed, making the boy twitch and go down for cover. “So you are the troublesome child that has been dumping bodies in the gutter of Noxus? You are younger than I expected.”

The boy did not ask himself how a grown-up could have followed him, but quieted his flying breath and attempted to reposition once more. First, he mentally traced the origin of the echoes wavering through the tunnel, narrowing the possible position of his opponent to a point to his right, about seven meters away. Holding his breath, he attempted to slip away as silently as he was able to. After only three steps, he halted again, sensing someone blocking his path once more. 

The boy knew when his opportunity for an escape dwindled, so he encompassed a tiny pebble in his scarred hands before throwing it, letting it contact with the ground in a barely perceptible sound, four meters to the right and behind his current position, close to another tunnel leading away. Then, he embraced the shadows, using them like he used his cloak to augment his speed and stealth, moving in on the man who had indeed turned into the direction of the thrown stone. He held his breath and followed the _pull,_ lunging at his opponent with fierce tenacity. 

Time seemed to slow down for the boy as he adjusted the position of the tip of his rust-bitten blade to pierce through the man's unguarded side. This time, the stranger did not even turn to him anymore as he lifted a blade to parry, and the boy had not expected him to. People smelling like this one were usually _arrogant,_ thinking one trick worked twice and expecting him to think the same, but the boy was smarter. He executed the feint with his blade before punching the man's own knife, formerly hidden in his left hand, upwards in a swift motion, ready for the hot pain erupting in his right arm as the man's weapon connected with it. There was no way to stop his second blade though, he figured, keeping its tip steady to puncture the groin of this much older, much taller man. In an impossibly fast movement, the stranger twisted his hip so the blade slid off on leather armor instead of puncturing skin, a hand grasped for the boy's neck and used his momentum to bash his face against a viscous wall, making his head spin at the contact. With cat-like agility, the boy ducked to the ground to evade the follow-up boot, aimed to break his spine. He did not wait for his still-spinning head to catch up before he lashed out at the calf that missed him by centimeters, ripping a tear into the leather boot before he rolled back on his feet in a motion that made his abused muscles cry out in pain. 

The dark figure stood again, twirling a glinting blade in a too-calm fashion while the boy was panting heavily. He would not be able to hide wheezing like this, he knew as much. 

"Creative thinking, you—"

The child interrupted the man by catapulting himself forward, his newly acquired blade hidden once more. Even as he attacked, he did not see the same horror he usually evoked in his victims, there was only the barest flicker of interest in impossibly green eyes— then a hand grasped for his right elbow as the man's silhouette seemed to flicker just enough for the boy to miss him once more. The hand guided his momentum to the ground, smashing his arm against the slimy, irregular cobblestones that made out this segment of the sewers. The boy did not need to hear the sharp crack to know that his arm was broken more than once, and he let out his breath just before his back connected with the filthy ground, rolling into a ball to absorb the shock. The pain followed without delay, hitting him with excruciating force, nearly drowning out any other sensation. He hissed lowly, trying to breathe through the agony. He did not question the fact that he was still alive as he forced himself on his knees. 

The man studied him as he struggled to stand. "Don't interrupt me," the stranger advised. "But you exploit the circumstances adequately—" 

The boy answered with a snarl, throwing himself against the eroded wall with his uninjured shoulder first, before he turned and tried to make a run for it. 

Hot pain erupted between his shoulder blade, searing through his left arm, halting all thoughts flickering through his head. This time, the blade did not stick in one of his vitals, only made his left arm tingle with painful paresthesia.

" _Do not interrupt me,_ I am not finished with you—" 

The man's voice stopped as the walls began to crumble, a dangerous sound everyone living this deep in Noxus' belly knew well enough. _Fluid always runs downhill_ , one of the first lessons the boy had learned, and they were currently very deep down. Knowing where smaller pipes ran was helpful as well. Those thoughts did not stop him in his attempt to _get the fuck away from here._

"Oh, you little shit," the man exclaimed just as the walls cracked and sewage started to leak through the tear. 

The boy ignored the pain now concentrating in his shoulder and ran, trying his best to be faster than the yielding wall. Ear-shattering noises flooded the tunnel, like the liquefied waste and debris did, with the boy barely managing to hop onto a collapsing edge. With his right arm being useless, he jumped and held on to an opening in the ceiling with his left hand as chaos enfolded below him. With not enough strength left to pull himself up, he pulled his legs close to his body and held on to the edge, willing his numbing fingers not to let go, not to let him fall into the deadly maelstrom of muck and stone. Nobody without an exact knowledge of the grounds could have survived this, the boy estimated as the filling level of the tunnel rose. He gasped in desperation, feeling his nails splinter under his tight grip as the mire finally rose high enough for him to touch bigger rocks swept away by the sewage with his feet, using them as leverage to relieve his aching fingers. 

Finally, the nasty half-fluid had risen high enough to be a better base for the boy to push himself off. He managed to lock himself in the opening above him, crawling through it to reach a higher tunnel. As soon as he heaved himself over the edge, he listened for eventual sounds, his breath flying. He was no longer able to hold his breath but, with the bluster from below, his own sounds contributed little. He sank against another oozy wall, forcing himself upright while catching his breath and looking around frantically. There was hardly a way for that man to have survived this and still, at this point, the boy would not take any chances. 

After a small eternity, he forced his trembling legs into motion once more. He needed to get _out_ of here if he wanted to live, the wound on his face burned like fire, his arm would be permanently impaired if not treated. The rest of him was not faring any better, hurting more than he had ever experienced before. He might be alive, but the received injuries might kill him slowly. The result could be the same, dead was dead. He pocketed the fine blade that had punctured his lung, trying to force enough breath through his airways. He looked to the now peaceful flow of slurry, slowly gushing against the hole he had just crawled through. 

"Stubborn," the now-familiar voice echoed through the tunnel and the boy nearly screeched in frustration. 

Being addressed like this made one thing clear, the older man was toying with him, successfully trying to get him out of his reserve; there was just no other reason why he should have announced his position like this. It could also be a feint, a way to evoke fear inside of him, and that was nothing the boy would tolerate. Sadly, fleeing the scene to come back later was out of the question as well, he was currently too slow, too loud to escape someone who had survived the flood he had unleashed. But he still had other advantages. Relying on the sounds still coming from below him, the boy started to move away, being as unobtrusive as he was able to. 

"They call you ' _Talon'_ ," the voice, seemingly coming from nowhere but louder than before, made him retreat against the grim-covered wall once more. "Are you able to talk?" The voice echoed closer, and the boy checked his appearance— he was just as dirty as the wall, absolutely not standing out, so he scrambled up the uneven surface until his head had reached the curve where wall turned into ceiling. 

Steps emerged from the tunnel, a slow, confident gait, and the boy forced his breath even against the protest of his whole body. He knew how a last chance looked like, and he intended to make the best of this. 

"You can just come out and accompany me," the older man lured only to be ignored as the boy concentrated on keeping his swimming vision halfway clear, counting the still-working parts of his body as a distraction. He pulled the newly acquired knife into his left hand once more, pressing himself flat against the safe wall. 

The lone, dust-covered figure of his pursuer entered his field of vision, his cloak dark with frayed ends but otherwise uninjured. He was right-handed, currently without a visible weapon, and his body posture was without strain. His hood had slipped away from his head, showing fiery red hair, cut militarily short and, more important, no neck-guard. _This_ was the one chance the boy would take.

The time it took for the older man to cross the dirty tunnel stretched, the calm rhythm of his steps never wavering. Their loudness could only pose another trap, but the child had already arranged his own.

And so he waited, his body’s protest drowned out by the high of the hunt until the red of the stranger's hair passed below him. The blade in his left hand was ready and, with the man's next step, the boy pushed himself off the wall, the dagger's tip ready to pierce into the vulnerable neck. The stranger's head twitched and he lifted his arm, the formerly hidden dagger he held meeting its twin in the boy's hands, but the momentum of his jump let him collide with the assailant as his broken arm sent a new wave of agony through his body. The man redirected the boy's blow and punched his chest, but went to the ground with him. The impact robbed the boy’s breath as he heard his ribs cracking. 

A much taller frame bent over him. Struggling for breath, he held onto the blade and kicked, aiming for the man's shin. He only hit the air as a foot stomped down on his leg, bringing a new wave of anguish. As the bone broke, the boy's world turned black. Only a moment later he forced his eyes open again as he was being dragged on his injured leg, nearly making him wail out in pain. He only let a hiss escape his mouth as he was hauled, the cut-open side of his face scraping over the ground. The involuntary movement came to an abrupt halt with something blubbering right next to his head, but the only thing the boy noticed was the blade still clutched in his left hand. His right leg was functional as well, even though he had been turned to lay on his stomach, leaving him with a deficient field of vision. With just a little air inside of his body, he would be able to—

Strong hands grasped for the sticky mat of his hair. He did not struggle but conjured the remaining energy still within him, even as his head was moved almost tenderly— the boy, suddenly realizing where this was going, pressed his eyes shut as his head was pushed down into the hole in the ground and his face broke the surface of the nasty liquid filling up the moat. He pressed his eyes as well as his lips together in an attempt to not get the fluid anywhere near his open skin. His head became lighter the longer he was held under, his weak attempts not doing much in freeing him. Just as the strength left his limbs, he was pulled up again, his face turned just enough to cough and gasp into the slightly drier but just as disgusting floor of the sewers. 

"Do you ever give up?” A sharp sound resonated from the man’s throat, the boy was not able to place it. “I can respect that.” He pushed the boy’s head down once more, shorter this time, before pulling the puffing body up once more. The boy did not feel his limbs anymore.

A sharp blade connected with the skin of his throat. The boy had barely enough energy left to force his eyelids open. Green eyes were focused at him, not faltering in their perception even once. 

“I would not drown you, Talon," the tall man said and put a little pressure on the tip of his weapon, his voice sounding dangerously soft. The boy had regained just enough air to notice that he himself was still holding on to the blade in his left hand. "You always were so careful to not be seen. You managed well against those hitmen. But it takes an assassin to find an assassin and, unlike your previous victims, I _am_ an assassin.”

The boy kept completely still, filth dripping from his hair, air rushing through his mouth to fill his still-working lung. He no longer strained to keep his head up but refused to break eye contact with the red-haired man. 

“I am the Hand and Blade of Noxus, General Marcus Du Couteau of the Noxian High Command. I give you a choice: either work for the High Command or take death by my blade.” The sting against his throat intensified with each word. Pointedly, he looked to the fine weapon still clutched in the boy’s dirty grasp, a small smirk forming on his lips.

The boy held his head still and opened his mouth, a string of air leaving him without producing more than a hiss.

"Repeat," the General ordered.

The boy forced another gust of air through his impaired airways. For the first time in his young life, he obeyed. "No High Command," he croaked with a toneless voice that had not been used in weeks. The blade in his neck stayed steady, waiting. “Only you,” he managed to breathe out. 

His eyelids fluttered and the pressure against his neck intensified. The green eyes became his sole focus as everything else blurred out of existence.

Then, the colorful eyes narrowed. "Deal, Talon. You will serve _me._ Do you accept that?"

 _Talon_ tried to inhale once more, but his voice failed, numbness creeping up his limbs. 

The man, the General, waited patiently, but the boy’s voice did not obey a second time.

Talon heard a snort. “If you drop my blade now, I’ll understand that as your acceptance," the voice sounded far away now. 

After a long moment, a subtle clatter of steel hitting the floor echoed through the tunnel. The last thing he saw was a satisfied, green gleam. Then, his eyes rolled to the back of his head as his eyelids fluttered shut.


End file.
